


Save it for later

by GreenGarnets



Category: Grosse Point Blank (1997)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-22
Updated: 2017-12-03
Packaged: 2019-02-05 10:50:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,081
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12792993
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GreenGarnets/pseuds/GreenGarnets
Summary: My version of what "I say accept...and get out of town" looks like.





	1. Chapter 1

It wasn’t that simple, of course. Things are never as simple in real life as they appear in books or movies.

Ten minutes later, Martin was back in the kitchen, cleaning blood off himself and assessing damage. His left hand was cut up and bruised, but he was pretty sure nothing was broken. He looked around, making a mental inventory of what he’d have to do to remove any traces of himself from the scene. He looked towards the staircase, hearing a creak, and the sound of two people making their way very cautiously downstairs.

Debi came in first, still holding his gun, wide-eyed with shock. Bart followed close behind, clutching Martin’s gun case to his chest like a security blanket. They both glanced around at the scene, and then seemed to decide simultaneously that the best plan was to focus only on him.

He spoke quietly and firmly, a tactic he had always found to work well with any passing witnesses. 

“Bart, we need to get you someplace safe, before anyone else gets wind of this,” he said, looking at him first. “Do you have a number for the attorneys who are taking your deposition?”

Bart stared at him for a few seconds, his mouth hanging open slightly. Then he nodded.

“Yes!” he said. “It’s in my office. I’ll go and call them.” He turned to leave the kitchen.

“Bart!” Martin barked. Bart turned back around with a start. “Don’t call them yet. Just bring the number back here.” Bart nodded and turned away. 

“Bart!” Martin barked again. Bart spun back around. “You can put the gun case down.”

Bart looked down. “Oh. Right.” He deposited it gently on the counter, and left again.

Martin turned back to Debi. “Debi,” he said, stepping towards her and peering into her eyes. She looked back but didn’t answer. “Debi, can you give me the gun, please?”

She looked down at her hand, then back up at him. “Oh. Sure.” She handed it to him barrel-first. He took it from her gingerly and put the safety on, then placed it on top of the gun case. 

“Debi,” he said again. She looked at him. “Where do you keep the dish towels?”

“Dish towels?” she repeated, as if she’d never heard of them.

“Dish towels,” he confirmed. She stood completely still, then walked around the kitchen island to the far side, carefully avoiding looking at the men on the floor. She pulled open a drawer and looked into it, then up at Martin.

“Here they are,” she said. “How many do you want?”

“Just one,” he said reassuringly. She handed him one and watched as he took it and began wiping selected objects with it – the handle of the refrigerator, the television set, the edges of some of the counters. She watched as he picked up the frying pan from where he had flung it on the floor earlier, and wiped that too. He put it back on the counter and looked around.

“I think that’s everything,” he muttered to himself. “Have to go upstairs too.” He looked around again, and then focused on Debi. “Debi.”

“Yes, Martin?” she said alertly, even though she still looked dazed.

“Debi, we have to get your father someplace safe. When he comes back, we’re going to organize that, and then we have to go someplace else, okay? You can’t stay here.”

“Okay…” she said, sounding uncertain.

“We don’t have much time,” he said patiently. “Someone is bound to have heard all that gunfire and called the cops or security or something.” He paused and looked at her to see if she was absorbing this, and was somewhat reassured when she nodded. “So after we explain things to your dad, can you go upstairs and pack a bag for yourself?”

She nodded again. Then it was as if she woke up. “Martin, how many people did you just kill?”

He counted up in his head. “Seven, I think. Well, maybe only five. I think Grocer probably killed those guys - ” he pointed into the dining room. “Oh, that reminds me.” He darted into the dining room and wiped down the counter on that side, as well as the TV cabinet, then came back to stand in front of Debi. She looked at him as if seeing him for the first time.

“Martin, you’re covered in blood! Are you okay?” A look of horror dawned on her face. “Oh my God, did I shoot you?!”

“No, no, you missed me completely, I’m fine, don’t worry,” he reassured her.

“I could have killed you!” she exclaimed.

“No, no, it’s fine,” he said again.

Just then Bart came back into the kitchen. Martin turned to him and Bart handed him a sheet of paper. 

“Great, a 24-hour number,” Martin said, scanning the paper. “Okay, here’s what we’re going to do. Bart, you’re going to call this number and tell them there’s been an attempt on your life. Tell them we’re bringing you to the airport and that they should meet us at the Marriott there to take you someplace safe until tomorrow. They also need to alert the authorities to come here. I’m going to go upstairs and pack an overnight bag for you. Debi, you’re going to go pack an overnight bag for yourself.”

Debi nodded along to all this, her eyes flicking between Martin and her father. Then she zeroed in on Martin again. “What about you?”

Martin glanced at her. “We can go get my stuff later,” he said dismissively.

“No, what about you being here?” she asked. “What about your…involvement…in the situation?”

“Ah,” Martin said, comprehension dawning. “No, no, I’m not here. I haven’t been here. Felix La Poubelle was here, but not me.”

“Felix…?” Debi asked in confusion.

“The guy from last night,” Martin said significantly. “We’re going to switch places. That way they can go looking for him instead.”

Debi swallowed, then asked, “And will they…find him?”

“No,” Martin said. Debi swallowed again.

“And why didn’t Felix finish the job?” Debi persisted. “When the people who put the contract on my father start asking?”

“Maybe he didn’t know about the contract?” Martin suggested. “Maybe he’s not very good at his job? The thing is they’ll never know because they can’t ask him, or me, or anyone else who was here.”

Bart, who had stood silently throughout this entire exchange, apparently absorbing not a word of it, now appeared to re-animate. “Shall I make the call now?”

“Yes, Bart,” Martin said decisively. “Do you remember what you’re supposed to say?”

“That there’s been an attempt on my life and that someone needs to meet us at the Marriott – when?”

Martin looked at his watch. “In an hour.”

Bart nodded. “And that they need to send the authorities here.” 

Martin nodded again. “Actually, come up with me and tell me what you need. Then I’ll pack it while you call. Debi – can you be ready in 15 minutes?”

 

*~*~*~*~*

 

They got away clean before anyone in authority arrived. Martin surmised that everyone in the neighbourhood was sleeping off a really rough Saturday night, or else all the lavish landscaping blocked the noise from one enormous house lot to the next. They took two cars so that Martin could return his to the rental agency after they dropped Bart off. The lawyers, who were old hands at this sort of thing, had sent someone to pick Bart up who looked as though he should have been guarding the president of Paraguay. As Debi gave her father a goodbye hug, Martin considered this rather unfortunate mental association. He hoped it wasn’t also prescient.

They had dropped off Bart and the car and driven back to Grosse Pointe. Debi had dropped Martin off at the hotel to change, pack, and check out, while she organized things at the radio station. By the time she was back to pick him up, it was getting on for two o’clock.

“I’m starving,” Debi commented as they pulled onto the road.

“I’ve got some energy bars in my bag,” Martin said, making a move to lean into the back seat and rummage.

Debi gave him a look. “Can we please stop acting like assassins on the run now, and go eat lunch in a restaurant like normal people?”

Martin considered. “Sure. We can do that. Where should we go?”

“How about the diner on St. Clair? They serve lunch for another hour,” Debi suggested.

“Sounds good….Wait, didn’t we use to go there…” Martin trailed off.

“All the time? Yes,” Debi confirmed. “Movie nights.”

Neither of them spoke again until the waitress had seated them in a booth. Debi had started to sit down first, then glanced around and moved to the other side of the booth so that Martin was facing the front door.

“Thanks,” Martin said, sliding into the seat. 

“No problem,” Debi said quietly, glancing at him briefly and then focusing on the menu.

After the waitress had taken their order, they sat staring at each other for a minute, neither speaking. 

“So…my dad….” Debi began.

Martin looked around, then shook his head a fraction. “Not here,” he muttered. “Wait until we’re back in the car.” He looked around again pointedly, studying the décor. “It’s different, right?”

Debi looked around too. “Kind of,” she said. “The layout is still pretty much the same, but they changed the colors and the decorations a few years ago.”

“Do you come here a lot?” Martin asked, in that pretending-to-be-casual way she’d noticed he used to downplay that he might be having strong emotions about something.

“Not a lot,” she said. “Occasionally. I didn’t for a long time, but then…if I’d avoided everyplace, I’d never leave the house. And then, the house….”

His expression didn’t change, but she noticed that his ears were turning red. “Where’d you go to college?” he asked, as if this was the logical next question.

“Ann Arbor,” she said with a small shrug.

He nodded. “No University of Chicago after all?” he said.

She shrugged again. “I decided I didn’t want to go that far from my dad,” she said, then looked at him. “I didn’t want to be out of reach.”

He met her gaze, knowing what she really meant, but that was another thing they weren’t going to discuss in a diner. “So how was it? College?”

She smiled ruefully. “It was fine. Sometimes it was even great. That’s where I started working in radio. And it’s where I met my husband. Ex-husband,” she corrected herself.

“And when did you guys get married?” he asked.

“About a year after graduation. He was in communications too, and he got an offer to work at a radio station in Dallas, so we got married and moved.” She fiddled with her silverware. “By then I was ready to go someplace else.”

“And how long were you there?” he asked.

“About three years,” she said. “We split up about two years ago – spring of ’94. I saw the ad for the job at WGPM and I told him I was going to apply for it. When I got it, I left.”

“Wow,” he commented. He was listening intently, leaning his head against his bandaged hand. “How did he take that?”

“I don’t think he was very surprised,” she said. “I think we both kind of knew it was going nowhere by then.” She shrugged again. “I should have known it was doomed on our second date, when I found out that his favorite band was Journey.”

She looked up as the waitress approached with their food, then back at Martin who seemed to be struggling to articulate a further response. His expression was an arresting combination of envy, regret, relief, and yearning, and she decided it was time to turn the tables.

“How about you?” she asked, unfolding her napkin.

Martin froze with his sandwich halfway to his mouth. “What about me?” he asked warily.

“Well, I know you don’t have a wife in Arkansas, but did you? Or anywhere else for that matter?”

Martin looked down at his plate. “No.”

“Okay, so no marriages – other than the Army, of course,” she teased. “How about serious relationships?”

He took a huge bite of his sandwich, chewed it thoroughly, and swallowed it, keeping his eyes on her all the while. “No,” he said finally. “No serious relationships. No relationships at all, really.”

“So – what, you’ve just spent the last ten years _alone_?” she asked. “Dates? Nights out with friends? Holidays? Vacations?”

He swallowed another bite and grimaced. “My … profession doesn’t attract a lot of high-quality specimens of humanity,” he said. “And I wasn’t really looking to form any…connections.” He looked away, to where the waitress was wiping down another table.

It was her turn to be rendered speechless as she considered the bleak picture this presented. It wasn’t just her he had cut himself off from; it was everyone. He had set out to cut himself off from the human race. Almost completely successfully, as it turned out. Almost.

She looked at him again and decided it was time for another subject change. “So,” she said, picking up her own sandwich, “is there any place you’ve been that you’d like to go back to? You know, as a tourist?”

He looked back at her, lost in thought, and then suddenly his face brightened. “Yeah,” he said, as if realizing it for the first time, “you know where would be really cool to go for a vacation? New Zealand.”

“Oh, I’ve always wanted to go there,” she said, “ever since - ”

“- Split Enz,” he chorused at the same moment, smiling again.

 

*~*~*~*~*~*

 

When they got back to the car, Debi popped the trunk, then chucked the keys at Martin without warning. He still caught them.

“Wanna drive?” she said. He nodded, and she started rooting around in her luggage while he got in and started the engine. She got in the passenger’s side a minute later, clutching a battered cassette case.

“What’s that?” Martin asked, glancing at it and then looking over his other shoulder as he pulled out of the parking space.

“Split Enz reminded me,” she said, and popped a cassette into the tape player. After a few crackles and pops of static, the steady bass of “I Got You” poured out of the speakers. 

Martin looked from the stereo to her in amazement. “Is that - ”

“The first mix tape you ever made me,” she confirmed. “Summer of ’84.”

“When we were still ‘just friends’?” he grinned. “Even though you spent more time with me than you did with your ‘boyfriend’ – what was his name?”

“Rob Hutchins,” she said promptly. “He was getting ready to go to Northwestern, he had better things to do than hang around with a little junior.”

“Luckily for me,” Martin said with nostalgic satisfaction. He turned to drive through downtown, then looked at her again. “So. Where are we going?”

Debi looked back at him blankly. “I don’t know. Where do you want to go?”

He stopped at a red light, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel. “Want to meet my cat?” he asked.

“Sure,” she said agreeably. “Is it possessive as well as demanding?”

“I don’t know,” he said. “I’ve never had a chance to find out. And we could ….” He trailed off.

She looked at him, then above his head. “Is that another black cloud I see gathering?”

He smiled briefly. “Look - I know we have a lot of serious stuff to talk about, but … can we also just … I dunno … make this that road trip that we always talked about? Do all the stuff we wanted to do when we were seventeen but couldn’t yet?” He looked at her pleadingly.

“You mean, like, eat all the junk food we want? Stay up all night watching videos? Sleep in the same hotel room? Take off for California and not tell anyone where we’re going? Have fun?” she suggested.

He was still staring at her. “Yeah,” he said. Then he jumped as a horn honked behind him, because he hadn’t noticed that the light had turned green. He faced forward and started driving again.

She smiled over at him. “Sounds like a plan to me.”


	2. Chapter 2

They decided to stop for the night in South Bend. (“Always stay in college towns if you can manage it,” Debi said when she suggested it. “Wisdom learned from many a radio junket. The hotels are good enough so the visiting parents don’t get cranky, and there’s usually at least a few decent bars and restaurants too.”)

“What kind of food do you like?” Debi asked as they strolled down Eddy Street, looking at the options. 

Martin shrugged. “I’m not picky.” He looked around at the options. “Which is probably a good thing.”

“Well, we can start right in on the junk-food thing,” Debi pointed at an Irish pub. “How about cheeseburgers and onion rings?”

They had gotten back to talking the way they had always talked – about almost anything and everything under the sun. Debi had confirmed that, even in his self-imposed isolation, Martin’s voracious intellectual curiosity had remained unchecked, when he mentioned his ongoing attempt to read every book that had won the Pulitzer Prize for general non-fiction. Martin in his turn had been impressed not only by the number of concerts Debi had attended since 1986 (perks of the job), but also that she could recite them in order, with dates.

“Not set lists, though,” she said, shaking her head sorrowfully. “My memory’s not what it used to be.”

They hadn’t talked about any serious personal topics yet, but they had discussed, among a variety of others: the ongoing presidential election (and the previous two); the Gulf War (including a few carefully selected anecdotes from Martin); the Lollapalooza phenomenon (including a few carefully selected anecdotes from Debi); imposter syndrome; and the best snacks for road trips. They had split a large order of onion rings to go with their cheeseburgers, fries, and beers. They were discussing whether to split a dessert when a man who was not their waiter walked rapidly up to their table. 

Martin froze and Debi saw his hand slide under the table. 

“Debi? Debi Newbery? Is that you?” the man said, and Debi looked up at someone who looked vaguely familiar, but whom she couldn’t place.

“Hi -?” she said uncertainly, glancing between him and a suddenly very tense Martin.

“It’s Tom Nolan,” he said. “I used to date Megan Bailey when you guys were housemates, back in Ann Arbor - remember?”

She looked at him again. He could have been any one of a hundred guys she’d gone to college with who had gone on to become lawyers or insurance agents or middle managers. Megan, who had been Debi’s least favorite housemate, had dated at least three of them in the two years they had lived together.

Debi smiled – what she thought of as her ‘interviewer smile’.

“Hey, Tom,” she said pleasantly. “How are you? Small world, hey?” She stuck out her hand and shook his firmly. “How’ve you been?”

“Great, I’m great. How’ve you been? Have you seen Megan lately? What brings you to South Bend?” he asked, taking longer than strictly necessary to release her hand. Martin continued to watch him steadily.

“Great, yeah, no, I haven’t seen Megan since graduation. We’re just passing through – do you live here?” she parried, trying to deflect him with questions about himself.

“Yeah, I’ve been here for a while now. Hey, whatever happened to Alex?” he asked with interest.

“Oh – I don’t know, we broke up a long time ago,” she hedged, then glanced from Martin to her watch. “Sorry to rush, Tom, but we’ve got to get back on the road -”

Martin had already dropped a fifty on the table and was halfway out of the booth, and Tom stepped back hastily to let him through. Debi scrambled to her feet to follow suit. “Oh, hey, no problem. I should give you my number, you can let me know next time you’re in town -”

“I’ll look you up!” she called over her shoulder as she followed Martin, who had told the waiter to keep the change and was now heading for the door. She bumped into him as he stopped abruptly on the doorstep, sticking his head out to peer up and down the street. He put out a hand to steady her and keep her behind him, then pulled her out onto the street so that she was between him and the wall and he was shielding her with his body as they walked. When they had gone about fifty feet, he pulled her into the darkened entryway of a closed office building, then scanned the street again. 

He turned to look at her, but his face was in shadow and she couldn’t read his expression. “Did you actually know that guy?” he asked her in a whisper, his hand still resting lightly on her wrist.

“I’m pretty sure I did – he looked familiar. I don’t think I would have recognized him – but why would he lie?” she said.

“Any number of reasons,” he said quietly, then looked out again. He made them wait another couple of minutes, and then they walked quickly and silently back to the hotel.  
There was no one in the lobby except the desk clerk, and they walked swiftly into a waiting elevator, where Martin began pushing the ‘Close door’ button repeatedly. As it started to close, he pushed the button for the ninth floor.

“Martin -” Debi began, pointing towards the button panel, but he put a finger to his lips and shook his head. The doors closed and the elevator went to the ninth floor without stopping. When the doors opened, Martin stepped off first, looking in both directions. He signalled to Debi to follow him and then walked straight to one of the fire staircases. He opened and closed the door noiselessly, and they hurried down three flights to the sixth floor. After checking that the coast was clear again, Martin hustled her into their room, where he double-locked the door and put a chair under the door handle.

“Let’s hope the fire alarm doesn’t go off,” Debi commented from where she was sitting on the end of the bed watching him.

“Yeah,” he said, letting out his breath with a whoosh and beginning to unzip his jacket.

“Martin!” Debi jumped to her feet and crossed the room to him. “Marty, your hands are shaking.”

“Fuck,” he gasped as she took hold of his hands. He could feel how hard they were trembling in hers. “Fuck,” he repeated faintly. “I guess this is what happens when you decide to start expressing your emotions, huh?”

Still holding his hands, she led him over to sit on the edge of the bed, then sat down next to him. “Do you really think someone followed us?” she asked.

He shook his head. “I don’t see how they could have,” he said. “I’ve been keeping an eye out, and I think I would have noticed. But that was so _random_ – it just freaked me out.”

“Yeah, me too,” she said quietly. 

They sat in silence for a few minutes while Martin took deep breaths. When his hands stopped shaking, Debi kept holding them. She tugged one gently so that he looked up at her.

“Martin, what’s our…situation?” she asked.

He looked at her blankly for a second, then realized what she was trying to ask him.

“Everyone who knows that I was in Detroit has been…neutralized,” he said carefully. “And we’re circulating a few details to support the story that I was, too. With La Poubelle having disappeared, it makes it more plausible that I have, too.”

“And how did La Poubelle…disappear?” she asked apprehensively. 

He looked at her hard, opened his mouth and closed it again. “I promise that he is gone and that no one is going to find him. Can you trust me and believe that? Because I really don’t want to tell you the details.”

She looked back at him, and her insides flip-flopped. “Okay,” she said uncomfortably. She didn’t really want to know the details, but it bothered her to have no-go areas between them. 

They sat for a few more minutes in silence, while she digested what he had told her.

“Who’s ‘we’?” she asked finally.

“Huh?” he said, distracted. 

“You said ‘we’ were spreading information about what happened to you. Who’s ‘we’?” she repeated.

“Oh, right. Well, really, it’s Marcella who’s doing that. She’s good at planting information,” he commented.

“Who’s Marcella?” she asked, now completely confused.

So was he. “Didn’t I tell you about her? She’s my assistant.”

“Your _assistant_?” she repeated incredulously. “You have an _assistant_? What on earth does she _do_?”

“You know, assistant stuff,” he said, as if that should be obvious. “Making reservations, answering the phone, ordering supplies….”

“Supplies,” she muttered, withdrawing her hands and looking away. She was conscious of another twisting feeling in her gut – was it _jealousy_? “How long have you had this assistant?”

He still looked puzzled. “Since I went into business for myself. Five years.”

That felt like a punch to the stomach. “Five years. So I guess you’ve managed to maintain _one_ long-term relationship.”

He looked at her like she was crazy, his brow furrowed. Then suddenly he smiled.

“Debi,” he said with mocking gravity. “Are you jealous?”

“No!” she retorted, feeling childish and suddenly furious about this person who knew all about the other side of Martin’s life, and who had been working with him and talking to him every day for – years, maybe even five – while she, Debi, had been trying to find a way to accept that he was gone and to make a life without even the possibility of him in it. Furious at her for having a place in Martin’s life, and furious at Martin for giving space to anyone else. She stood up abruptly with her head turned away, so that he wouldn’t see the tears filling her eyes, and walked quickly toward the bathroom. 

He leapt up from the bed and caught up with her in two long strides, putting himself between her and the bathroom door. She stopped and put her head down, refusing to make eye contact.

“Debi,” he said softly, all joking gone from his tone. “Debi, please look at me.” 

She looked at him full in the face and waited. He put his hands gently on her shoulders. “I’m sorry I teased you.” He slid his hands up so that he was holding her face. “I’m sorry that I ran out on you and left you in limbo. I’m sorry that it took me so long to find my way back.”

She nodded, unable to speak as the tears spilled over. He pulled her close to him, wrapping his arms around her as she buried her face in his shoulder and cried. He held her tightly, stroking her hair and kissing the top of her head. “Let it out,” he said, his own eyes wet. “It’s been a rough few days.”

“You were my best friend,” she sobbed into his jacket. “Do you have any idea what it did to me when you disappeared?”

“Well, I know what it did to me, and that was bad enough,” he mumbled into her hair. “I’m so, so sorry.”

She didn’t respond. But she wiggled her arms free, and wrapped them around his waist, and he figured that was an indicator of forgiveness. 

He didn’t say anything else, just stood there and held her until she was cried out. Finally she stepped back, wiping her face with her hands.

“I need to go wash my face,” she said. “Sorry about your jacket.”

Martin looked down at the large damp patch on his right shoulder and shrugged. “Trust me, it’s seen worse.”

She chuckled softly at that, then went into the bathroom and shut the door. Martin took off his jacket and hung it up, then left his shoes near the door. He went to his suitcase and rummaged around for his pajamas and shaving kit. He put them to one side, then flopped on the bed with a magazine to wait for her to come out.

When she did, he saw that not only had she scrubbed her face clean, she had also brushed her hair and changed into a pair of cut-off sweat pants and a ratty black New Order t-shirt.

“I see your taste in pajamas hasn’t changed,” he commented.

She looked down. “Hey, we went to this show together, remember?” He nodded. “I’ve never really gotten the hang of the lingerie thing,” she continued, yanking back the covers and climbing in.

He shifted to make room as she settled in on her side. “You do know it’s, like, 8:30, right?” he asked.

She elbowed him in the ribs. “Don’t be a wet blanket, Marty,” she said. “Put on MTV and then go put on your pjs, and let’s get this slumber party started.”

He laughed, kissed her on the forehead, and got up to follow orders. When he came back from the bathroom, she was fully under the covers with only her head sticking out, watching “Hits of the 80s.”

“How perfect is that?” he exclaimed. He dumped his stuff on his suitcase, shut the lamp off, and climbed in beside her.

“God, your feet are freezing!” she shrieked as he put them on her. 

He slid down further, putting one arm under her and pulling her close to him. “I guess you’re going to have to thaw me out,” he said, sounding simultaneously mock-seductive and hopeful.

She turned to face him, sliding one hand under the hem of his similarly ratty t-shirt (The Clash, of course – even when you’re traveling light you have to take along a few treasured items). "That sounds like it could take a while," she said, half-joking and half-serious, looking up into his eyes.

"It might," he said quietly, "but I'm pretty sure you're the only person who can."

She slid her hand up to his neck, then pulled his head down to kiss her. In the background, The Smiths played quietly.

_So for once in my life_  
_Let me get what I want_  
_Lord knows it would be the first time_  
_Lord knows it would be the first time_


End file.
